


If Your Burdened Soul Can't Find The Morning Light . . .

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: A Basketful of First-Times [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Coming of Age, Complicated Relationships, Disturbing Themes, Explicit Sexual Content, Fictional Religion & Theology, First Time, Flashbacks, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Healing, Gentleness, Healing Sex, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Making Love, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Non-Penetrative Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ritual Sex, Serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-07-28 19:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20069374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Jedi are sworn to celibacy and forbidden attachments--and yet the bond between Master and Padawan is, paradoxically, the most intimate connection a Jedi can have. Perhaps that's why, and only for a night shrouded in secrecy, one might instruct the other in the practicalities of sex.For some, it is a ritual of lust, or of power, or compassion, or corruption.For others, it is love.Or: ". . . I'm here tonight."Now featuring two "alternate takes"!Chapter 2: What if the situation played out more realistically?Chapter 3: What if Qui-Gon had no traumatic history at all? (aka pure fluff)





	1. Bring Your Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rites of Passage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088073) by [Aurae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurae/pseuds/Aurae). 

> This draws upon the idea floating around AO3 in a few fics that Jedi Masters are allowed (or expected) to initiate their Padawans into sexuality. 
> 
> Besides that, there's just a lot of headcanon, mostly pertaining to my viewing the Jedi as something akin to a religious order, up to and including vows of celibacy. But then I got to toying around with the concept of this "Practicum," as aforementioned initiation's sometimes called, and how that might play out if it's the _one_ sanctioned sexual experience a Jedi is allowed to have.
> 
> **Please mind the tags.** In addition to explicit positive sexual content, there are flashbacks to non-con. I'm also by no means suggesting that what happens in this fic is in any way, shape or form remotely a realistic "fix" for past sexual trauma. It's not.
> 
> The work title, chapter title and "Or" come from Sam Burchfield's ["Here Tonight"](https://samburchfield.bandcamp.com/track/here-tonight).
> 
> Comments and thoughts are ever and always welcome. I hope you enjoy. <3

There is a room.

Obi-Wan suspects he’s passed it, at least once or twice, but never given the darkened interior a second thought. There were no locks in the Temple. Curiosity had never drawn him inside. And yet today he stands before it, the evening shadowplay of Coruscant dropping amethyst tresses against the floor. He shivers, though he isn’t cold, and struggles to quiet his mind.

There have been whispers since his friends’ blood began to stir at adolescence that there is a secret ritual. Not a trial, not a test—but something between Master and Padawan: something as intimate as the meditative rite that sealed their bond through the Force—a bond broken only upon the ritual conferrence of Knighthood . . . or sundered by death.

Their classes on biology, the various secreted hormones in their blood, perhaps giddily filled in the gaps. It became something speculated on in tantalizing snatches of conversation, stolen in the darkness; half-guilts hard-won: like the legends of the Sith, they were conjectures best kept to silence. If any of the Masters heard them—

Obi-Wan shakes his head, forcing himself back into the present. He had never liked listening to rumors or hearsay; they seemed . . . indecent . . . Thankfully Bant, his steadfast friend, had been just as unimpressed as he; whenever the conversations arose, they simply retreated to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and swam or lolled on the banks of the artificial streams, speaking of missions and dreams and letting mysteries remain just that.

As far as Obi-Wan’s concerned, the ritual is something _sacred_, certainly not to be defiled by the idle tongues of adolescent beings caught between their racing hormones and their Code-bound vows. Sacred things, always, should be cradled with the utmost care.

* * *

Qui-Gon paces the circumference of the Council chambers, waiting for Masters Yoda and Mace Windu. In many ways he’s grateful that solely the two of them will be present for the blessing—such that it is—as if there’s much pretense to the ritual itself. But the entire affair settles a lump of sickness somewhere within the center of his gut; he’s spent the day deep in meditation, trying desperately to remind himself that he is _not_ Dooku—he will not bring down upon his Padawan the same horrors that were visited upon himself.

Why, then, ask this of him? Of any of them? At all?

He’d never faced this ritual with Xanatos, and well enough that was; perhaps he was too eager to guide the boy into the Light that he overlooked the Darkness . . . as he had his Master . . . His stomach clenches and his step falters; Dooku’s face looms within his mind, replaced suddenly by one much younger, crowned in flowing tresses of raven hair, with ice-blue eyes—

* * *

_But no, it was only Dooku, and always, even now, there is the choking member forced into his mouth, all but down his throat—and the agony as his vestal body seems _split_—every thrust of Dooku's cock as sharp as if it's acid-slick, devouring—blood and excrement and cum, when he later tried to clean himself and knew, and _knew_, that he would never be clean—_

* * *

Qui-Gon staggers to a halt, leans against the windows, breathes through the spike of cortisol, the nausea, before moving onwards. He lets the thread of his thoughts catch where it may, although his hands are curled into tendon-strung, white-knuckled fists. He cannot bring himself to loose them.

Isn’t Yoda often reminding them that they are luminous beings—not this crude matter?

All he has known of the act is violence: the lust and power of one brought to bear upon another.

And yet he also knows that it is never supposed to be that way.

Even now, he wonders why he didn’t try to tell Yoda—Yoda, who’d himself been Dooku’s Master—

It doesn’t matter now. Tonight—tonight he is supposed to give his Padawan, for once and only and always, what a Jedi cannot know . . . And he knows nothing of it.

“Qui-Gon. Troubled, your thoughts are.”

Shuffling steps offset by the dull _thunk_ of a walking-stick announce the Grand Master’s presence; Qui-Gon pauses in his pacing, bowing to the ancient being who commands nothing but the utmost respect within his heart. Only with Yoda, it seems, can he speak freely—if not without reprimand upon occasion.

“Where is Master Windu?”

“Along, he will be.” Yoda settles himself in his thick-cushioned seat, balancing his walking stick across his lap, appraising Qui-Gon with eyes that seem to bear within them the light, all the light, of the living Force—and all the suffering. “But talk, we must. Know, I do.”

Qui-Gon frowns. _Know what?_ But the Force whispers that he keep his silence; he draws a breath, exhales, letting the frown loosen itself from his features. Yoda waits, seemingly impassive, detached, as if giving the Jedi a moment to collect himself in private.

“Difficult for you, the Practicum was. Twisted, it was: something of the Dark Side, it became. Painful memories I fear this brings.” A calculated pause, Yoda’s eyes dropping closed, his face deepening into a mask of grief. “Enough sorrow for what happened, I do not have. Seen the signs, I should have, before entrusting you to Dooku.”

“It wasn’t _your_ fault, Master—”

He can’t bear to bring himself to ask how, exactly, Yoda knows.

“Darkness in Dooku, always there was . . .” Yoda lifts his head, slowly, and gestures Qui-Gon closer with a thickly-clawed hand. When the latter kneels before him from respect, the same hand he places upon Qui-Gon’s head, as if in benediction. “Agree with you always I do not, Qui-Gon. But strong in you, the Light Side is. Strong it is, in your apprentice.”

Qui-Gon loses himself to the gentle pressure of the Master’s touch, the raw, undiluted power of the Force flowing between them. The sickness begins to dissipate, slowly, washed away by the Light. What was done to him cannot be changed, nor does he know what the night will bring. The memories will come again—of that he’s sure—

“Trust in your Padawan, you should.” Softly, almost a whisper. “Betray you, he will not.”

“Would never,” Qui-Gon murmurs, opening his eyes slightly, following the subtle pattern on the chamber floor—flecks of mineral deposits in the polished stone . . . “Master . . .”

“And your feelings, you should also trust. The currents of the living Force, they are.”

And that. What he will never admit to, never _confess_ to . . .

He has watched, over the years, how his Padawan has grown from an angry boy—not lacking in courage—but with a desperate thirst to prove himself—into a young man of grace and wisdom, if headstrong and impertinent with a cheeky sense of humor.

Yoda chuckles quietly, as if reading Qui-Gon’s thoughts—and well enough _that_ wouldn’t surprise him. “Much like you, he is.”

But his feelings—for once in his life he knows that his feelings are leading him down a treacherous path. Yes, he has watched Obi-Wan mature, but that’s not all—well enough he could release something as petty as pride. The young man, now—no child, now—is twenty-three, strong and hale—and fragile in a way that Qui-Gon’s heart can scarcely hold.

He is in love.

* * *

The last vestiges of the setting sun cast Qui-Gon’s silver-coppered hair flame; Obi-Wan bows his head as he enters the Council’s chamber, his hands folded in his robes, reaching with every fiber of his being for the center of calm within himself wherein dwells the Force. He cannot bear to look at his Master. Not quite now.

There is a room, and there are rumors, and that is all he knows.

_But it’s not_, whispers a voice within his mind, a dark figment of his own imagination that he’s fought so hard to stifle over the years. _It’s not. You can’t be such a fool as to pretend you can ignore it . . ._

Qui-Gon’s hand—broad and warm, so full of life that Obi-Wan can nearly feel each callous, each beat of blood in the veins—drops gently against his shoulder before his Master turns; automatically he follows suit, and both of them bow to the two members of the Council present. Some part of him, however slight, relaxes at the sight of the ten empty chairs.

“Greetings, Qui-Gon.” Mace Windu is no more than a silhouette, and yet his eyes seem to bore through the gathering darkness, splitting as a laser beam. “And to you, Padawan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan struggles to command his tongue; he can scarcely trust himself to speak; at last he merely ducks his head. It hardly registers that Qui-Gon, too, is silent.

“Summoned, you have been,” Yoda continues in a voice as measured and gentle as he uses with the younglings. “Discuss the ritual, we must.”

“It is a private matter between Master and apprentice. We keep it shrouded in secrecy so as to not create any expectations surrounding the experience.” Mace steeples his fingers together, leaning forward slightly. “No doubt, young Padawan, you have heard . . . stories . . . which are at best the products of young and eager minds, and at worst gross exaggerations. I must caution you to set whatever you have heard aside, and focus solely on the here-and-now.”

“Mindful of your feelings, you must be, Padawan Kenobi. A delicate time this is. No love may a Jedi know. No attachments may we form. Sacred, this ritual is—a blessing, the Council confers. The will of the Force, it is—and for many generations, this has been.”

“Be aware of the temptations of the Dark Side. Do not let your mind be clouded by lust. The ritual is not about the body.”

Obi-Wan feels a sudden weakness begin to tug at his knees, a sheen of sweat to gather at his palms; Mace Windu’s words have suddenly thrown this whole affair into stark relief, turned it into something _real_. He glances once at Qui-Gon, finding his Master’s face lost to the oncoming night, unreadable. Over the years he has come to know every subtle quirk to that aquiline visage—every trace twitch, the flick of an eyebrow, the press of his lips . . . But now there is nothing.

“Nothing more to say, there is.” Yoda, himself half-lit by the windows, offers Obi-Wan a deeply-wrinkled smile. The gesture once would have stirred nothing but a knot of shame in his chest—surely the Grand Master knows what is in his heart, what he has fought against since Qui-Gon first accepted him as Padawan. But perhaps _because_ of that is why the gesture’s given . . .

A play of light at the corner of his eye whispers that his Master’s bowed his head in parting; as if a reflection in still water he does the same, the nanosecond difference unnoticeable to any but the ancient being who settles back in his chair, still smiling, however slightly. All around him the living Force is singing—and never, in all the enigmatic blessings for this ancient ritual that he has given, has it felt so right.

* * *

The room greets them in a spray of gentle light, of steam, of soft tones and an austere kind of luxury. Obi-Wan tries not to think about the scrape of the door at his back, tries not to think that _something_ will have changed when the morrow comes and that door is flung open again. Nor does he think—and this is strangely simple to dismiss—how many thousands of beings have been here, like this, such as they.

There is a large bath in the corner; someone has come to draw heated water from the ancient taps—hence the steam—and towels are hung on two hooks by the door. Beyond that is a mat for meditation—big enough for two—and a sleep-couch the same. Glow-lamps whisper soft light at the corners of the room; there is a window, dark with a night always lit by Coruscant’s citadel. A low shelf holds dusky bottles full of oils and a few choice scattered crystals; Obi-Wan can feel the Force pulsing through them, spreading an aura of calm, of peace, of tranquility.

Expectantly he turns—and finds that his Master is neither calm, nor at peace, nor in the slightest bit tranquil.

No one would know it, of course, just by looking; his is a face of serenity, his countenance more often than not as if cast to stone.

But Obi-Wan can tell—if not by his face, all the subtleties, uncertainties, then the abject forcefield around his mind, the bond between them—unparalleled, unspeakable closeness—grown terse and guarded, as it was when Tahl was in danger—when she died—

Almost as if Qui-Gon’s afraid.

“First we will meditate.” His Master’s voice is low and eerily strung through with steel; the incongruity between the words and tone cements the truth of Obi-Wan’s suspicions. “We must align ourselves solely with the will of Force before proceeding. As Master Windu said—this is not a matter of pleasuring the body, whatever you have heard. We will be guided along the proper path.”

“Yes, Master.”

Obi-Wan frowns at his Master’s back, thankful—not for the first time, but perhaps now more than ever—that he has long since learned to tamp down his body’s hormone-driven impulses, although he can’t always control its autonomic response. Even now desire, trepidation, tingle in his blood and stiffen his cock—but concern for Qui-Gon’s behavior overrules all hope—if he’d dare to call it such.

No—to hope for the realization of any of the dreams he’s had since adolescence claimed him—since he has scarcely slept a night without fearing that his dreams will give his heart and body away—his forbidden longing for his Master . . . No. That is all of the Dark Side, just as Master Windu had forewarned.

He imagines, for a moment, Yoda’s wizened face, his gentle smile, and firmly puts wholly out of mind the Council’s blessing, the ritual, the unspoken expectations.

* * *

They slip into a trance—and it’s unlike any Obi-Wan’s experienced with Qui-Gon before.

It reminds him almost of the one time they ever drew their lightsabers against each other in something other than a sparring match—on Melida/Daan, what seems like a lifetime ago—a sharp-edged and dangerous and heartbroken dance, neither giving ground, each loathe to make the first move, knowing well that it might spark something bigger than the both of them. In that instance it had been his Master who had backed down first, who in so doing had saved them both from an impossible duel of fates that would have shattered their bond irreparably.

Now, feeling the Force surge about them, rife and raw, Obi-Wan takes the lesson to heart, sinking back into himself. Patiently waiting for whatever's to come.

* * *

Qui-Gon wraps the Force around himself, his Padawan’s earnest and innocent mind and gentle heart almost more than he can bear. The room . . . he had never in his life thought that such a thing could so unnerve him. He is a Jedi Knight, with the Force as his ally; he has faced horrors and suffering and death unimaginable and been able to let go the fear, the anger, the helplessness, releasing them into the Light until he is clean and empty and whole.

He had thought he’d done the same with this—with Dooku.

Until they came into the room—and then every sensation, every moment of mounting dread before he’d slipped his mind from his body, divorcing himself of the reality around him—

* * *

_The press of the floor against his knees, his hands clenched into fists, his heart pounding in his chest and refusing to grow still and soft. The steam of the bath, firmly ignored, playing across his face. Dooku’s voice, silken and slick and conniving, well aware that Qui-Gon will do nothing but obey if only the right words are woven through his mind; Dooku’s heinously engorged member forced into his mouth—and he can’t _breathe_—_

_And then the resounding _crack_ of the floor against his chin as he was flung by the Force and the press of Dooku's hand at the small of his back and then tearing, burning heat and _pain_—_

_And no amount of wrapping himself in the Light can muffle the agonized cry torn from his lips, or save him from the brutal terror of all beings who so scream in the night._

* * *

A shudder wracks his frame; convulsively he swallows against the creeping involuntary reaches of the gag reflex gathered at his throat, the impulse to curl into a fetal ball; the ripples carrying—he’s sure of it—carrying across the Force—

The Light, the song, answers—but not abstractly—no—the clarion call of his Padawan.

His presence, his hands outheld—figuratively and literally. Qui-Gon’s awareness shifts, half-slid back into his physical self; they sit cross-legged, knee-to-knee, their heads bowed until they nearly touch. They’d each laid their hands, palm-up, upon their thighs—but now Obi-Wan’s fingertips are reaching for his own with an unutterable tenderness.

And Qui-Gon realizes that if he has not outright told Obi-Wan in words—he’s said enough.

* * *

The memories that aren’t his own flood him, slamming into him as if he’s fallen from a crushing height—but there is the Force to cradle him, always—and Obi-Wan sets his teeth and _breathes_, letting the horror wash through him, letting the Light burn away every shadow. He wills himself to become as a mirror, bright and pure, reflecting back that Light, that warmth, that strength and love—love above all else—willing Qui-Gon, in turn, to reach for it—to let it suffuse the whole of him—

That a Jedi is forbidden love doesn’t even cross his mind.

The Force engenders love.

_<I am here, Master.> _He feels those large, calloused hands grow nearly still, until all that course through them are subtle tremors—echoes—and slowly, slowly, Qui-Gon’s grip tightens, his thumbs begin to trace tracks along Obi-Wan’s own training-scarred knuckles.

_<I am here.>_

* * *

When at last they emerge from the trance, something is changed. It has accomplished what Qui-Gon had sought for himself all day—and he can’t help but smile blithely: the Force works in mysterious ways. Obi-Wan has called him back from the Darkness once before—

His gaze shifts to the crystals on the shelf: one flickers, as if filled with an ember. One of the Fire Crystals, then, renowned for its healing properties—and a rare thing to find here, of all places. Perhaps Master Yoda . . .

He shakes his head.

His body and mind are at peace. Not forever—but for now. What happened with Dooku will never change. But now he is not the fallen Jedi’s Padawan—he is a Master in his own right—and his own Padawan, the brave and selfless man, merely sits and waits—patient and wise beyond his years. His Padawan, who loves him. His Padawan, who for years now has cried out in the night beneath the shadows of dreams—who has buried his desires with guilt and shame. There is a difference, Qui-Gon has tried before to explain, between being sworn to celibacy and being ashamed of one’s bodily reality—particularly during adolescence . . .

And Obi-Wan had simply looked away, had said nothing, and Qui-Gon had at last allowed himself to understand fully the depths of his Padawan’s misery.

Yes. He is in love.

And now, through the Force, the bond between them clear and calm, as if they are almost as one being . . . deeper than when they spar, or are outnumbered by their foes, or find themselves in a situation which teeters precariously between war and peace . . . Qui-Gon catches, still, the subtle and irrepressible flickers, the desire kindled in the blood of the vital and virile. But when he looks at his Padawan, the young man’s face is calm, his blue eyes deep and still. His hands are warm in Qui-Gon’s grasp, the pulse beneath his skin measured and slow.

“We might bathe,” he murmurs finally. His voice, hushed as it is, sounds loud in the silence. “The water’s still warm.”

The room is now full of steam; sweat beads at their brows and plasters their tunics to their backs. Being free of the fabric would be welcome—

He makes as if to stand, but Obi-Wan stops him with a small shake of his head. “Master. We don’t . . . need to. Whatever this night is meant to be, I . . .” He pauses, searching for the words, for something delicate and decent and not entirely presumptuous.

Qui-Gon shifts, tilting his head, searching for the crux of Obi-Wan’s hesitation. “Would you rather we didn’t?”

“. . . Wouldn’t _you_?”

_<Ah.>_ Qui-Gon opens himself to the Force, to the bond with his Padawan, inviting Obi-Wan to gather a sense of the peace and the calm that’s come over him. A rarity, he lets slip through the current his emotions, the truth that if he’d been able to reach such a state as _this_ earlier today, Obi-Wan would have been none the wiser—and Qui-Gon himself would never have been tangled in the Darkness anew.

_<You helped me, Padawan: you helped me do that which I by myself could not. You were the Light, shining through the Darkness, however much I’d hoped you’d never see it. And if now it frightens you that I act out of a sense of obligation . . ._

_<Whatever I have to share . . . I wish it to be with you, in this moment, for this night. The one blessing I can give.>_

* * *

Obi-Wan blinks up into his Master’s face, those indigo eyes alight with the soft warmths of the glow-lamps and the crystals at his back. Shadows catch in the faint creases at his forehead, the corners of his lips; he seems at once a much older and much younger man—in some abstract way, if only for this night, it feels as if they find themselves on even ground.

_<Obi-Wan. Do you trust me?>_

_<Always, Master.>_

_<Then trust that I would not offer what I cannot give.>_

Obi-Wan nods, the truth of Qui-Gon’s words, the simple sincerity, the trust that they’ve built up over the decade spent together—bonded together—privy to thought and action and longing and sorrow and joy—welling up within him, steadfast as the currents of the Force.

_Be only in the here-and-now . . ._

Qui-Gon stands—a fluid, powerful motion, muscle and mass and grace intertwined—drawing him gently to his feet.

* * *

The water is so warm it almost burns. Obi-Wan shivers, drawing his knees up to his chest, the flickering of shadow and light against the backs of his eyelids offering sightless, grasping glimpses of his Master’s movements. He dares not look—not yet—though Qui-Gon has made no suggestion to the contrary. The soft rustle of clothing, the unmistakable clatter of a belt, the metallic heft of a lightsaber’s hilt as it's laid to rest on the floor once would be tormenting sounds. They have, indeed, seen each other naked more than once before on missions, in far and distant fields—

But never . . . like this. How it is. How it will be.

Obi-Wan still holds no definite hopes close to his heart. Whatever will be, will be—and it will be enough. Whether or not the ritual is supposed to be a Padawan’s sole sexual experience—at least until the day when he finds himself in his Master’s stead—doesn’t matter so much now. He has buried his discomfort well enough for all these years; easier it might be, to let it go, if he never knows what he can never know again.

The brush of fingertips at his shoulders; the soft tickling tresses of his Master’s hair.

_<Open your eyes.>_

They are now beyond speech . . . Obi-Wan shudders, the intimacy of the bond suddenly heightened a thousandfold when Qui-Gon carefully settles himself within the bath. At the suggestion—for a command it is not, will never be, not now: nothing in this moment, in this room, could ever be—his eyes flicker open.

For a moment he can’t help but stare, and for the first time is not ashamed to let his eyes wander over his Master’s frame before meeting his gaze in full.

Unfettered, his heart flings sentiment between them faster than his brain could possibly conceive—and no, he finds that he doesn’t regret the sentiment, either:

_<Master . . . You’re . . . > _“Beautiful” is not enough. No word is enough. He reaches for his Master’s hand, only to find Qui-Gon’s head inclined towards his own, a subtle invitation, one coarse finger tucked just beneath his chin.

Fighting for a steady breath he leans closer, aware of every bead of sweat and water against his skin, the blood pounding in his ears, the heated ache in his straining cock that he’s been desperately trying to suppress. He’s aware, too, of the tenderness in Qui-Gon’s eyes, the quirked set of his lips, the light playing against his still-dry hair and the raised scars along his body that bespeak a life struggling for peace—and more often than not given to the blade.

* * *

The first kiss is just that, as all first kisses are: hesitant, awkward, a chaste brushing of the lips, the faint coarse tickling of Qui-Gon's beard. A caught and shuddered breath, a moment’s pause—

Before Qui-Gon cups his Padawan’s face in his massive hands, brushing wayward strands of a half-untangled braid back from his eyes, drawing him near and nearer still, half-whispering through the Force everything he loves, and everything he is, and how long, how long he’s known—

And before one hand slips, tracing a shaking trail along taut skin, while lips and uncertain tongues half-muffle tangled moans—and Qui-Gon guides his Padawan’s fingers to curl around the tilt of his cock—startled with the jolt of electricity the young man’s touch imbues—a flare flung through the Force, fever-bright—the kiss broken for a cry—

_<See, it is here, this is truth, it is real . . . For you, my Padawan . . . for you.>_

* * *

There is sweet-smelling soap, and they bathe: a meditation and a song and a prayer of languid hands and aimless wandering across the planes of muscles and countless furrows and valleys—smooth and coarse and calloused and little secret hidden places that are silken still. Each finds very quickly, too, just _so_, where one’s touch can leave the other breathless. Obi-Wan’s collarbone. Qui-Gon’s ribs—the latter which Obi-Wan discovers by reverently running his hands over the scar left by a pirate’s blade while they were en route to Bandomeer . . .

Pleasure passes between them like thought, like beads upon an abacus, a constant flux, an exchange kept in delicate balance. Well enough aware are both of them that only their training, their embedded self-control, is what keeps their passions half in check, even as they dance along the precipice, shaken beneath innumerable preludes.

* * *

They dry themselves—loathe to part but sensing in the separation a moment to regroup. If the room is luxurious in its own way, the towels leave much to be desired—and well enough it is—a sensual respite. Obi-Wan’s legs tremble beneath him, and he’s grateful for the greedy maw of the drain as it gurgles and devours the water now grown cool; whimpers catch against his throat—soft murmured exhalations betray his Master’s need—and only now, vaguely, does he consider what mortification it might be if they’re somehow overheard.

Qui-Gon steps close; the heat of their bodies, the _nearness_, is almost more than Obi-Wan can bear; the need to press himself against the larger man, to fall into his arms, to be held by warmth and light and find some measure of release . . . The temptation of the body threads itself throughout his mind, nearly enough to undo his self-restraint. He holds his breath as Qui-Gon gently combs through the lock of hair left long, deftly plaiting his Padawan’s braid, before letting the hand drop to catch his own.

_<Perhaps we should sit down.>_

Such a mundane suggestion that Obi-Wan can’t help but laugh. _<Master, I’m not sure I can stand.>_

Qui-Gon smiles, holding out his arm, an open hand. _<This way, then, my Padawan . . . >_

The sleep-couch beckons; by glow-lamp they study one another more closely now; being free of the water gives them greater leave to let gazes wander, to drop idle touches softer than a glance. Unspoken are quiet, determinate truths: there will be no need for the bottles of oil that play in the crystal-light . . .

But Obi-Wan still wonders, briefly, if the motions of the night will regather the shadows in his Master’s mind—

Until Qui-Gon teases back the foreskin to place a single kiss at the head of his cock before shifting again, placing far more than a single kiss at his lips.

Whatever self-control he’s managed to cultivate over the years has inevitably unraveled to its final thread; a keening whine, a jerk of his hips, an agonized plea are the best Obi-Wan can manage. _<Master. Touch me. Please. I need—_I need_—>_

Qui-Gon's hand, slickened with the young man's need, is warm and firm and _oh—_

He becomes aware, in the haze of thrusting into Qui-Gon's grip, of the velvet whisper of his Master's cock nestled beside his own, the trails of precum trickled there against his skin_—_

He shudders, and the shudder is catching.

The Force surges about them, pouring itself through the rhythm of their bodies: their gasping breaths, their cries, the clenching of muscles, the cadence taut and strung almost too tight.

The rhythm quickens—it reminds them both, perhaps, of the end of a duel: no less deliberate, no less in their control—but near the end, nonetheless.

The sleep-couch is soft beneath their bodies, the fabric forgiving against bare and dampened skin; no sound betrays their motions but their own. They lie together, flush, their legs entangled, cradled in each other’s arms. Obi-Wan buries his head in Qui-Gon’s massive shoulder, his nose thick with strands of drying hair and the scent of him—oh—Qui-Gon smells like every beautiful planet they’ve been called to—rich and deep as soil, clear as mountain air, gentle as a growing forest—

He rolls his hips again—desperate, almost wanton—finds his Master’s move to meet him, feels the larger man begin to shake in earnest. The Force gathers between them, carrying them, sustaining them, tossing them from the crests of waves—again, again—a tide—echoing somewhere within the very essence of their beings—

Qui-Gon’s breath against his neck is harsh; Obi-Wan can feel the hand splayed wide against his back slide to curl into a fist as his Master’s cock begins to twitch against his thigh, a living creature of its own accord—and so, too, is his own—slick, sweet, friction—he wraps his arms around the larger man more tightly, clinging to him with every ounce of strength he has, agonized, grinding_—_all semblance of the rhythm lost_—_

Before the galaxy all but explodes behind his eyes.

* * *

Years of repression, Qui-Gon knows—years of guilt, of shame—are buried in his Padawan’s near-sobbing cries as he cums. He can only hope that the pleasure has done as the Light did for him_—_has burned away the Darkness. 

His own body is kindling; his own body is the spark and the flame. Waiting there, in the primordial Light, is Obi-Wan_—_ever, always_—_and the spurted desperate heat of him is more than Qui-Gon can bear. He cants his hips, finding purchase just at the crook of his Padawan's thigh—and then the warmth of Obi-Wan's hand wrapped around him—the reverberations through the Force of the younger man's release bearing him with tender ferity into his own.

* * *

The Coruscanti night wears on. They do not sleep. Making love becomes a meditative trance, it seems, no beginning and no end, rapture multiplied upon itself, their orgasms only half of flesh and something far, far deeper—no less a current than the Force and all that that implies. There is a subtle truth to that, they know: morning will come and this—this they can never have again. It will become as something sacred that they carry, both of them, throughout their lives, whatever is to come.

Dawn breaks at last, lightening the room; tenderly the two of them move together one last time—one being it seems—one being it seems they’ve always been—despite everything between them—every argument, every hurt, every wrong—every triumph and joy—yes, that’s how they’ve _always_ been—not merely two halves of a single warrior but two spirits inextricably entwined.


	2. Wither And Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if the events of "Bring Your Peace" played out more realistically?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the long tradition of "alternate realities," I decided to <strike>be lazy</strike> <strike>cut corners</strike> draw on the previous chapter's introduction / set up for a sense of continuity. Therefore the first ~2'500 words are the same as the previous chapter's (albeit somewhat pruned and rearranged). Head to the paragraph break with the *** * *** for all the new stuff if you want. <3
> 
> **Please mind the tags.** There is an extended flashback sequence here, and I don't want anyone to be caught off-guard. <3
> 
> The notion of Qui-Gon imagining Obi-Wan "coming to the rescue" as a way of diffusing a flashback is based off of a technique sometimes used in cognitive-behavioral therapy. 
> 
> The title is from Gregory Alan Isakov's ["Bullet Holes"](https://gregoryalanisakov.com/songs/bullet-holes):
> 
> "Wither and bloom  
like we all do, soon enough.  
Cover me up with your love.
> 
> Scratches from the branches;  
we took our chances, sure enough.  
I am brambles  
but I am tangled in your love.
> 
> Bullet holes, bullet holes, all patched up and headed home . . ."
> 
> Comments and thoughts are ever and always appreciated; thank you so much for reading, and I do hope you enjoy. <3

There is a room.

Obi-Wan suspects he’s passed it, at least once or twice, but never given the darkened interior a second thought. There were no locks in the Temple. Curiosity had never drawn him inside. And yet today he stands before it, the evening shadowplay of Coruscant dropping amethyst tresses against the floor. He shivers, though he isn’t cold, and struggles to quiet his mind.

There have been whispers since his friends’ blood began to stir at adolescence that there is a secret ritual. Not a trial, not a test—but something between Master and Padawan: something as intimate as the meditative rite that sealed their bond through the Force—a bond broken only upon the ritual conferrence of Knighthood . . . or sundered by death.

Their classes on biology, the various secreted hormones in their blood, perhaps giddily filled in the gaps. It became something speculated on in tantalizing snatches of conversation, stolen in the darkness; half-guilts hard-won: like the legends of the Sith, they were conjectures best kept to silence. If any of the Masters heard them—

Obi-Wan shakes his head, forcing himself back into the present. He had never liked listening to rumors or hearsay; they seemed . . . indecent . . . Thankfully Bant, his steadfast friend, had been just as unimpressed as he; whenever the conversations arose, they simply retreated to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and swam or lolled on the banks of the artificial streams, speaking of missions and dreams and letting mysteries remain just that.

As far as Obi-Wan’s concerned, the ritual is something _sacred_, certainly not to be defiled by the idle tongues of adolescent beings caught between their racing hormones and their Code-bound vows. Sacred things, always, should be cradled with the utmost care.

* * *

Qui-Gon paces the circumference of the Council chambers, waiting for Masters Yoda and Mace Windu. In many ways he’s grateful that solely the two of them will be present for the blessing—such that it is—as if there’s much pretense to the ritual itself. But the entire affair settles a lump of sickness somewhere within the center of his gut; he’s spent the day deep in meditation, trying desperately to remind himself that he is _not_ Dooku—he will not bring down upon his Padawan the same horrors that were visited upon himself.

Why, then, ask this of him? Of any of them? At all?

He’d never faced this ritual with Xanatos, and well enough that was; perhaps he was too eager to guide the boy into the Light that he overlooked the Darkness . . . as he had his Master . . . His stomach clenches and his step falters; Dooku’s face looms within his mind, replaced suddenly by one much younger, crowned in flowing tresses of raven hair, with ice-blue eyes—

* * *

_But no, it was only Dooku, and always, even now, there is the choking member forced into his mouth, all but down his throat—and the agony as his vestal body seems _split_—every thrust of Dooku's cock as sharp as if it's acid-slick, devouring—blood and excrement and cum, when he later tried to clean himself and knew, and _knew_, that he would never be clean—_

* * *

Qui-Gon staggers to a halt, leans against the windows, breathes through the spike of cortisol, the nausea, before moving onwards. He lets the thread of his thoughts catch where it may, although his hands are curled into tendon-strung, white-knuckled fists. He cannot bring himself to loose them.

Isn’t Yoda often reminding them that they are luminous beings—not this crude matter?

All he has known of the act is violence: the lust and power of one brought to bear upon another.

And yet he also knows that it is never supposed to be that way.

Even now, he wonders why he didn’t try to tell Yoda—Yoda, who’d himself been Dooku’s Master—

It doesn’t matter now. Tonight—tonight he is supposed to give his Padawan, for once and only and always, what a Jedi cannot know . . . And he knows nothing of it.

“Qui-Gon. Troubled, your thoughts are.”

Shuffling steps offset by the dull _thunk_ of a walking-stick announce the Grand Master’s presence; Qui-Gon pauses in his pacing, bowing to the ancient being who commands nothing but the utmost respect within his heart. Only with Yoda, it seems, can he speak freely—if not without reprimand upon occasion.

“Where is Master Windu?”

“Along, he will be.” Yoda settles himself in his thick-cushioned seat, balancing his walking stick across his lap, appraising Qui-Gon with eyes that seem to bear within them the light, all the light, of the living Force—and all the suffering. “But talk, we must. Know, I do.”

Qui-Gon frowns. _Know what?_ But the Force whispers that he keep his silence; he draws a breath, exhales, letting the frown loosen itself from his features. Yoda waits, seemingly impassive, detached, as if giving the Jedi a moment to collect himself in private.

“Difficult for you, the Practicum was. Twisted, it was: something of the Dark Side, it became. Painful memories I fear this brings.” A calculated pause, Yoda’s eyes dropping closed, his face deepening into a mask of grief. “Enough sorrow for what happened, I do not have. Seen the signs, I should have, before entrusting you to Dooku.”

“It wasn’t _your_ fault, Master—”

He can’t bear to bring himself to ask how, exactly, Yoda knows.

“Darkness in Dooku, always there was . . .” Yoda lifts his head, slowly, and gestures Qui-Gon closer with a thickly-clawed hand. When the latter kneels before him from respect, the same hand he places upon Qui-Gon’s head, as if in benediction. “Agree with you always I do not, Qui-Gon. But strong in you, the Light Side is. Strong it is, in your apprentice.”

Qui-Gon loses himself to the gentle pressure of the Master’s touch, the raw, undiluted power of the Force flowing between them. The sickness begins to dissipate, slowly, washed away by the Light. What was done to him cannot be changed, nor does he know what the night will bring. The memories will come again—of that he’s sure—

“Trust in your Padawan, you should.” Softly, almost a whisper. “Betray you, he will not.”

“Would never,” Qui-Gon murmurs, opening his eyes slightly, following the subtle pattern on the chamber floor—flecks of mineral deposits in the polished stone . . . “Master . . .”

“And your feelings, you should also trust. The currents of the living Force, they are.”

And that. What he will never admit to, never _confess_ to . . .

He has watched, over the years, how his Padawan has grown from an angry boy—not lacking in courage—but with a desperate thirst to prove himself—into a young man of grace and wisdom, if headstrong and impertinent with a cheeky sense of humor.

Yoda chuckles quietly, as if reading Qui-Gon’s thoughts—and well enough _that_ wouldn’t surprise him. “Much like you, he is.”

But his feelings—for once in his life he knows that his feelings are leading him down a treacherous path. Yes, he has watched Obi-Wan mature, but that’s not all—well enough he could release something as petty as pride. The young man, now—no child, now—is twenty-three, strong and hale—and fragile in a way that Qui-Gon’s heart can scarcely hold.

He is in love.

* * *

The last vestiges of the setting sun cast Qui-Gon’s silver-coppered hair flame; Obi-Wan bows his head as he enters the Council’s chamber, his hands folded in his robes, reaching with every fiber of his being for the center of calm within himself wherein dwells the Force. He cannot bear to look at his Master. Not quite now.

There is a room, and there are rumors, and that is all he knows.

_But it’s not_, whispers a voice within his mind, a dark figment of his own imagination that he’s fought so hard to stifle over the years. _It’s not. You can’t be such a fool as to pretend you can ignore it . . ._

Qui-Gon’s hand—broad and warm, so full of life that Obi-Wan can nearly feel each callous, each beat of blood in the veins—drops gently against his shoulder before his Master turns; automatically he follows suit, and both of them bow to the two members of the Council present. Some part of him, however slight, relaxes at the sight of the ten empty chairs.

“Greetings, Qui-Gon.” Mace Windu is no more than a silhouette, and yet his eyes seem to bore through the gathering darkness, splitting as a laser beam. “And to you, Padawan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan struggles to command his tongue; he can scarcely trust himself to speak; at last he merely ducks his head. It hardly registers that Qui-Gon, too, is silent.

“Summoned, you have been,” Yoda continues in a voice as measured and gentle as he uses with the younglings. “Discuss the ritual, we must.”

“It is a private matter between Master and apprentice. We keep it shrouded in secrecy so as to not create any expectations surrounding the experience.” Mace steeples his fingers together, leaning forward slightly. “No doubt, young Padawan, you have heard . . . stories . . . which are at best the products of young and eager minds, and at worst gross exaggerations. I must caution you to set whatever you have heard aside, and focus solely on the here-and-now.”

“Mindful of your feelings, you must be, Padawan Kenobi. A delicate time this is. No love may a Jedi know. No attachments may we form. Sacred, this ritual is—a blessing, the Council confers. The will of the Force, it is—and for many generations, this has been.”

“Be aware of the temptations of the Dark Side. Do not let your mind be clouded by lust. The ritual is not about the body.”

Obi-Wan feels a sudden weakness begin to tug at his knees, a sheen of sweat to gather at his palms; Mace Windu’s words have suddenly thrown this whole affair into stark relief, turned it into something _real_. He glances once at Qui-Gon, finding his Master’s face lost to the oncoming night, unreadable. Over the years he has come to know every subtle quirk to that aquiline visage—every trace twitch, the flick of an eyebrow, the press of his lips . . . But now there is nothing.

“Nothing more to say, there is.” Yoda, himself half-lit by the windows, offers Obi-Wan a deeply-wrinkled smile. The gesture once would have stirred nothing but a knot of shame in his chest—surely the Grand Master knows what is in his heart, what he has fought against since Qui-Gon first accepted him as Padawan. But perhaps _because_ of that is why the gesture’s given . . .

A play of light at the corner of his eye whispers that his Master’s bowed his head in parting; as if a reflection in still water he does the same, the nanosecond difference unnoticeable to any but the ancient being who settles back in his chair, still smiling, however slightly. All around him the living Force is singing—and never, in all the enigmatic blessings for this ancient ritual that he has given, has it felt so right.

* * *

The room greets them in a spray of gentle light, of steam, of soft tones and an austere kind of luxury. Obi-Wan tries not to think about the scrape of the door at his back, tries not to think that _something_ will have changed when the morrow comes and that door is flung open again. Nor does he think—and this is strangely simple to dismiss—how many thousands of beings have been here, like this, such as they.

There is a large bath in the corner; someone has come to draw heated water from the ancient taps—hence the steam—and towels are hung on two hooks by the door. Beyond that is a mat for meditation—big enough for two—and a sleep-couch the same. Glow-lamps whisper soft light at the corners of the room; there is a window, dark with a night always lit by Coruscant’s citadel. A low shelf holds dusky bottles full of oils and a few choice scattered crystals; Obi-Wan can feel the Force pulsing through them, spreading an aura of calm, of peace, of tranquility.

Expectantly he turns—and finds that his Master is neither calm, nor at peace, nor in the slightest bit tranquil.

* * *

The room . . . he had never in his life thought that such a thing could so unnerve him. He is a Jedi Knight, with the Force as his ally; he has faced horrors and suffering and death unimaginable and been able to let go the fear, the anger, the helplessness, releasing them into the Light until he is clean and empty and whole.

He had thought he’d done the same with this—with Dooku.

Until they came into the room—and then every sensation, every moment of mounting dread before he’d slipped his mind from his body, divorcing himself of the reality around him—

* * *

_The press of the floor against his knees, his hands clenched into fists, his heart pounding in his chest and refusing to grow still and soft. The steam of the bath, firmly ignored, playing across his face. Dooku’s voice, silken and slick and conniving, well aware that Qui-Gon will do nothing but obey if only the right words are woven through his mind; Dooku’s heinously engorged member forced into his mouth—and he can’t _breathe_—_

_And then the resounding _crack_ of the floor against his chin as he was flung by the Force and the press of Dooku's hand at the small of his back and then tearing, burning heat and _pain_—_

_And no amount of wrapping himself in the Light can muffle the agonized cry torn from his lips, or save him from the brutal terror of all beings who so scream in the night._

* * *

A shudder wracks his frame; convulsively he swallows against the creeping involuntary reaches of the gag reflex gathered at his throat, the impulse to curl into a fetal ball; the ripples carrying—he’s sure of it—carrying across the Force—

* * *

*** * ***

Obi-Wan half-stumbles beneath the savage wrenching of the bond, like a wound with stitches rent: a sudden gush of blood, a flare of agony; images, sensations, all but poured into him—unchecked—and from a place of utter helplessness he can do little at first but struggle to bear Qui-Gon’s terror, the truth of the past that seems more real than this moment in the here-and-now.

A Jedi is taught that sometimes one must be the vessel for another’s suffering, where they can place their grief, their troubles, their Darkness—all the things that are far too much to bear alone. Because a Jedi, then, can release these things harmlessly into the Force; they can be a conduit through which even the Darkness flows but wherein it need not_—cannot—_linger long. The strong are honor-bound to lend their strength.

Quietly, then, with utmost care, he opens himself to the pain he’s sure his Master doesn’t know he sends along the bond, bearing all the terrible things, the story untold, that paralyze his Master’s form: great, solid angles, rigid limbs; he has often thought of Qui-Gon as a mountain but now a mountain he’s become: fixed, immobile, torn to helplessness and silence such that he scarcely breathes.

And so Obi-Wan breathes as if for the both of them—gently, softly; the gentleness is all there is—and gathers the Light, the still waters, the sweet-singing moss that grows on such stones where the waters play . . .

The stone . . .

He reaches into his tunic, fingers slipping into the pocket Bant had sewn there, fishing for that little black river-stone—his Master’s gift—which sings so strongly of the Light.

He thinks, briefly, of touching Qui-Gon’s shoulder. Of whispering the honorific title that falls so easily against his tongue. But if this room, the steam, the sight, the scent, the wood beneath their feet . . . if these things are enough to rekindle the Darkness . . . then so could a word . . .

Dooku had been Qui-Gon’s Master . . . And there, almost in tandem with his thoughts, a sharp flare, a wild eddy: a young man’s face, fixed, still, clinging to his training (knowing that a Jedi is fated to suffering) even as he realizes with dread what he can never understand until it _is_, what will be, oh what will never be forgotten.

_“Master, please—I don’t—”_

* * *

_<Qui-Gon.>_

* * *

Something cool is pressed into his hand, an economy of touch: he knows the fingertips are there but there is no harsh rasp of calloused skin. The Force shivers; from somewhere very distant a young man has called his name.

_But Qui-Gon is the young man—_

Instinctively his hands clench on the stone, so small, nothing but a drop of smooth, cool form within his grasp.

_Not so,_ whispers the stone. The Force, the Light, gleams so briefly in the Darkness. He feels hollow, unclean, some place utterly untouchable, as if beyond embodiment, beyond death itself. He cannot move, cannot think, cannot fight. He will remain like this forever.

_Peace, now. Hush, now. You are not the young man, now._

_<Qui-Gon.>_

_Feel, now: he is calling you._

* * *

There is the scrape of the door, a breath of fresh air drawn into the tepid, steam-clad room. Something jars Qui-Gon to himself, if only so, if only fitfully and fragilely slipping him back into his body, into this present moment in time, drawing him, pulling him; his feet bear him of their own accord, something within himself hurrying him on and on, through night-wrought Temple corridors, the places he knows so intimately that they need not be conscious recollections, his presence as splitting as a scream in the stillness, amidst the sleeping, peaceful energy—

The Darkness leers after him, catches at his feet, catches his heart and his blood to a frenzied chorus. Dooku will follow him, always. There is sickness at his throat, bitter, thick, gathering like the first of Dooku’s violence; he retches; he falls to his knees and his knees strike stone and he hears, faintly, rushing waters and he’s tried to swallow down the Darkness but even that was not enough—the Darkness came again with vengeance and blunt fire and afterwards, yes, cool water, he’d tried to clean himself and scour his body with the water and the Light but—

_(Blood and excrement and cum—)_

His hands clutch at the jagged rocks that tear at his knees but there, in the center of one palm, the soft, soft stone, the one of the waters, the one of the Light.

_Peace, now. Hush, now. You are not the young man, now._

_<Qui-Gon.>_

_Feel, now: he is calling you._

* * *

Obi-Wan had leapt aside as his Master hurtled through the door; getting him out of the room had been of utmost importance—that much he immediately understood—but Qui-Gon had seemed unreachable, at once distant and volatile . . . He has seen creatures, beings, paralyzed with fear suddenly explode into violence . . . what, then, to do if they feel trapped, but remind them that there’s always a way out?

So the door whispered open at his touch and Qui-Gon fled; after a moment’s pause, Obi-Wan followed in his distant wake. Far more guidance than his harried steps was the swath he cut through the tranquil, night-struck Temple: raw, wrenching edges and deep gashes and flickers of ice: devouring flame and torrential storm and the horrible silence that follows one, precedes the other . . . The heavy emptiness upon death, the moment when the body becomes but a hollow shell.

Or the terrible reality that it does not take the finality of death to so divorce the spirit from the flesh . . .

And now he finds his Master’s huddled form in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Such a place of stillness, of peace; the play of the night is unnaturally bright, but dark, still, but something soft and cool and sacred. Qui-Gon does not turn at Obi-Wan’s approach; the bond between them is at once a relentless tangle of emotions and an absolute void. There is no response, none at all, to his presence, to his calling of his Master’s name.

* * *

_Dooku has led him to the room without a word. Some part of Qui-Gon’s spirit has been left behind in the Council chambers, has wished with all he is to keep him there, beneath the gaze of Yoda and the other Masters . . . where he is safe . . . he has never felt unsafe with them, even though their knowledge, their wisdom, is enough to make even the most confident of Padawans duck their heads in acquiescence. _

_Increasingly of late, as he’s gotten older, Dooku’s brusque nature has taken on a coldness, a sharpness, that sends shivers through the young man’s bones._

_And now they are alone . . . for this . . . the ritual, the night._

_The Force is eerily still, eerily silent, as if the tension of their bond has been flung outwards to encapsulate all that Qui-Gon knows, the depths to which he can reach for the Light. As if someone has thrown a shadow over even the brightest of stars._

_The door has been shut. His stomach clenches into a sickened knot, the taste of his evening meal spiking at his tongue. He cannot even bring himself to look around the room._

<Undress.>

_The command is soft; Qui-Gon shivers, shivers despite the heat of the drawn bath, the luxury of water, the steam; despite the comforting presence of the crystals in the corner, the soft light of the glow-lamps. He reaches for the Force, clinging to it, knowing that it’s there even if he cannot feel it, even if something insidious indeed has tried to snuff it out from him . . . _

_He will not be hurried, and Dooku does not hurry him; he folds his clothing neatly, rests it by the wall, next to his boots, his belt, his lightsaber._

_Dooku gives him a glance, a look he knows well, a look for which he can do nothing but obey, a look that has meant, for many years now, that he should kneel at his Master’s feet._

_And so he does._

_In vain he opens his mouth; in vain he tries to explain that he doesn’t feel the need for this . . . his own body is enough . . . the currents taught to him by the living Force . . . it’s all enough . . . it’s more than two beings of flesh and blood could ever understand . . ._

_There is an impassivity to Dooku’s austere face that drags the words to silence; Qui-Gon stares up, acutely aware of the air against his skin, acutely aware of the whisper of the braid trailing down his shoulder, acutely aware of his nakedness. Instinctively, and for some reason he’s never before understood, he tries to cover himself with his hands._

_Dooku shifts, his shadow falling sharply, drawing nearer until no amount of staring upwards and trying to meet his Master’s gaze will distract Qui-Gon from the fact that Dooku is far too near indeed, and that the tie to his trousers has been undone, and that there is the unmistakable curve of his erection, inches from his face—_

_and then_  
_the door is_ shattered  
_not merely pushed aside but_  
_wrenched from frame_  
_and_  
_before Dooku can react_  
_the Force is snarling_  
_fierce whirlwind_  
_and he is flung_  
_against the wall._  
_Unstirring, yet he lives_  
_(for a Jedi should not kill),_  
_and Qui-Gon looks_  
_and_  
_there before him_  
_stands a young man,_  
_lightsaber in hand,_  
_his face a mask of grief_  
_and rage_  
_and love_  
_and the Force surges_  
_about him—_  
_sings—_  
_even if_  
_what is sung_  
_is what should not be_  
_in a Jedi’s heart—_  
_it is still Light_  
_and wraps itself about Qui-Gon_  
_like a robe . . ._  
_The young man crouches down,_  
_soft-glance, presence-shadow,_  
_Light, ah, Light;_  
_ wraps Qui-Gon in his robe,_  
_ covering his nakedness;_  
_cerulean tear-struck steady eyes_  
_meet his._  
_The face_  
_he knows_  
_so well._  
_He reaches out_  
_to tangle the braid_  
_in his hand_  
_as he has so often done_  
_and more often longed to do._  
<Obi-Wan.>  
_The young man’s name._  
_A small half-smile,_  
_hesitant,_  
_until_

Qui-Gon  
realizes he’s shaking  
uncontrollably  
and falls into the young man’s arms.

* * *

Obi-Wan accepts the weight of his Master’s body spread across his shoulders, his chest, the quiet scaffold of his arms, finding a fulcrum of balance there on the uneven bank of such a tiny, laughing stream. He allows Qui-Gon’s shaking to pass through him, untouched; ripples in still water and no more . . .

Finally the shaking stops.

Qui-Gon clears his throat, shifting back upon his heels, disentangling himself. They both settle cross-legged on the rock, watching the small stream as it passes. That it is an artificial play of water through filtration pipes does nothing to detract from its beauty.

“I’m so sorry, Padawan.”

Obi-Wan glances at his Master, finds Qui-Gon’s gaze somewhere else entirely, finds tears still fresh upon his cheeks, and shifts his attention back to his own hands, to his own body. Their closeness has tangled his blood; years of repressed desire sluice through his veins; never has he considered such a moment of the body’s betrayal of the spirit. Now, if never another time again, does he wish that he could will his stiffened cock to quietude. He knows, of course, of the body’s autonomic response, knows that it’s not his fault . . . but oh, what a savage moment, now . . .

Shame begins to thicken in his chest. Slowly, gently, he inhales, and he sets the shame aside.

The river-stone has found its way back into his palm, and idly he plays with it, as if holding liquid mercury, just a little drop of light. The bond between them hums, softly, steady and sure as it always is, even as undercurrents snare at the fragile calm. He isn’t sure just how to read them and so dares not speak.

“I wanted this night . . . the ritual . . .” Qui-Gon draws a breath, the inhalation tremulous; a moment later and the exhalation sounds as deep as ocean waves. “I thought I had made peace with it . . . What happened with Dooku. But the room . . .” The word trails off, becomes a tremor, a shake of the head.

More silence, then, spooled across the space between them like such fragile thread.

“Obi-Wan . . . I wanted to give you everything I never had . . . even if I didn’t understand . . . even if I didn’t know how . . . not for its own sake . . . but . . . I know you’ve wanted this. I wanted it to be my gift to you.”

Obi-Wan glances up, sharply, suddenly feeling a strike of uncertainty within his breast. “It's alright, Master. Please.” Softly, then, caught to the cadence of the Force: _<I promise. It's alright. There is no reason to apologize, Master . . . >_

_<But so long you've wanted this . . . And so have I.>_

Timid, almost, if anything from Qui-Gon can be so. At last the young man meets his Master’s gaze fully, drawn there by the pull of him, the coaxing through their bond. There are certain things that need to be said as such, certain acts performed as such: eye-to-eye, without fear, without regret.

Qui-Gon reaches for his hand; Obi-Wan marvels at the calloused skin, the beating blood, the warmth, the life. Together they listen to the little stream and slip into a trance, almost unconsciously; they know that whatever tonight might have been, the truths and unanswered askings and desires and even the Darkness still remain. But those are for another time. Now, this precious moment, now . . .

_<Thank you, Obi-Wan, for finding me.>_

Words that will never be enough.

_<I am here, Master. Always.>_

And the Coruscanti night wears on and the Force bears them to places where the unanswered things need not be answered yet, where the darkness can never tread, where they are safe and warm and whole, where in spirit they can cradle each other in love if the flesh and blood betray. Places of tranquility and light, where the waters laugh and the stones sing and the moss is thick and still.


	3. Two Lives Together, One Soul Deep Resounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ending on a sweet note! What if Qui-Gon had no traumatic history with Dooku whatsoever? What if this night was just about two celibate Jedi who've fallen in love and, under the guise of ritual, tradition, are given the sanction of the Council--if only for a night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is a month "late". I meant to get this done _ages_ ago, but life therew me some major curveballs. I apologize in advance as well if this isn't up to my usual snuff.
> 
> Anyway, as with the previous chapter--and in the long tradition of "alternate realities"--I decided to <strike>be lazy</strike> <strike>cut corners</strike> draw on the previous chapter's introduction / set up for a sense of continuity. Therefore the first ~1'000 words are the same as "Bring Your Peace," albeit massively pruned (gotta excise all the sad stuff). Head right on over to the paragraph break with the *** * *** for the new stuff if you want. <3
> 
> No need to mind the tags here! Nobody's had anything bad happen to them, so it's all just love and fluff.
> 
> The title's from a song called ["One"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOmYbu8cdQg), by Lamb.
> 
> "Here's a story  
Of lovers finding  
Union so deep  
There is no unwinding:  
Tender threads exquisitely binding  
Two lives together,  
One soul deep resounding."
> 
> (And if that sounds familiar, yep, I used it as a chapter title in a work that I deleted because it was poop. :P)
> 
> Comments and thoughts are always appreciated; thank you so much for reading, always, and I do hope you enjoy! <3

There is a room.

Obi-Wan suspects he’s passed it, at least once or twice, but never given the darkened interior a second thought. There were no locks in the Temple. Curiosity had never drawn him inside. And yet today he stands before it, the evening shadowplay of Coruscant dropping amethyst tresses against the floor. He shivers, though he isn’t cold, and struggles to quiet his mind.

There have been whispers since his friends’ blood began to stir at adolescence that there is a secret ritual. Not a trial, not a test—but something between Master and Padawan: something as intimate as the meditative rite that sealed their bond through the Force—a bond broken only upon the ritual conferrence of Knighthood . . . or sundered by death.

Their classes on biology, the various secreted hormones in their blood, perhaps giddily filled in the gaps. It became something speculated on in tantalizing snatches of conversation, stolen in the darkness; half-guilts hard-won: like the legends of the Sith, they were conjectures best kept to silence. If any of the Masters heard them—

Obi-Wan shakes his head, forcing himself back into the present. He had never liked listening to rumors or hearsay; they seemed . . . indecent . . . Thankfully Bant, his steadfast friend, had been just as unimpressed as he; whenever the conversations arose, they simply retreated to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and swam or lolled on the banks of the artificial streams, speaking of missions and dreams and letting mysteries remain just that.

As far as Obi-Wan’s concerned, the ritual is something _sacred_, certainly not to be defiled by the idle tongues of adolescent beings caught between their racing hormones and their Code-bound vows. Sacred things, always, should be cradled with the utmost care.

* * *

The last vestiges of the setting sun cast Qui-Gon’s silver-coppered hair flame; Obi-Wan bows his head as he enters the Council’s chamber, his hands folded in his robes, reaching with every fiber of his being for the center of calm within himself wherein dwells the Force. He cannot bear to look at his Master. Not quite now.

There is a room, and there are rumors, and that is all he knows.

_But it’s not_, whispers a voice within his mind, a dark figment of his own imagination that he’s fought so hard to stifle over the years. _It’s not. You can’t be such a fool as to pretend you can ignore it . . ._

Qui-Gon’s hand—broad and warm, so full of life that Obi-Wan can nearly feel each callous, each beat of blood in the veins—drops gently against his shoulder before his Master turns; automatically he follows suit, and both of them bow to the two members of the Council present. Some part of him, however slight, relaxes at the sight of the ten empty chairs.

“Greetings, Qui-Gon.” Mace Windu is no more than a silhouette, and yet his eyes seem to bore through the gathering darkness, splitting as a laser beam. “And to you, Padawan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan struggles to command his tongue; he can scarcely trust himself to speak; at last he merely ducks his head. It hardly registers that Qui-Gon, too, is silent.

“Summoned, you have been,” Yoda continues in a voice as measured and gentle as he uses with the younglings. “Discuss the ritual, we must.”

“It is a private matter between Master and apprentice. We keep it shrouded in secrecy so as to not create any expectations surrounding the experience.” Mace steeples his fingers together, leaning forward slightly. “No doubt, young Padawan, you have heard . . . stories . . . which are at best the products of young and eager minds, and at worst gross exaggerations. I must caution you to set whatever you have heard aside, and focus solely on the here-and-now.”

“Mindful of your feelings, you must be, Padawan Kenobi. A delicate time this is. No love may a Jedi know. No attachments may we form. Sacred, this ritual is—a blessing, the Council confers. The will of the Force, it is—and for many generations, this has been.”

“Be aware of the temptations of the Dark Side. Do not let your mind be clouded by lust. The ritual is not about the body.”

Obi-Wan feels a sudden weakness begin to tug at his knees, a sheen of sweat to gather at his palms; Mace Windu’s words have suddenly thrown this whole affair into stark relief, turned it into something _real_. He glances once at Qui-Gon, finding his Master’s face lost to the oncoming night, unreadable. Over the years he has come to know every subtle quirk to that aquiline visage—every trace twitch, the flick of an eyebrow, the press of his lips . . . But now there is nothing.

“Nothing more to say, there is.” Yoda, himself half-lit by the windows, offers Obi-Wan a deeply-wrinkled smile. The gesture once would have stirred nothing but a knot of shame in his chest—surely the Grand Master knows what is in his heart, what he has fought against since Qui-Gon first accepted him as Padawan. But perhaps _because_ of that is why the gesture’s given . . .

A play of light at the corner of his eye whispers that his Master’s bowed his head in parting; as if a reflection in still water he does the same, the nanosecond difference unnoticeable to any but the ancient being who settles back in his chair, still smiling, however slightly. All around him the living Force is singing—and never, in all the enigmatic blessings for this ancient ritual that he has given, has it felt so right.

* * *

*** * ***

The room greets them in a spray of gentle light, of steam, of soft tones and an austere kind of luxury. Obi-Wan tries not to think about the scrape of the door at his back, tries not to think that _something_ will have changed when the morrow comes and that door is flung open again. Nor does he think—and this is strangely simple to dismiss—how many thousands of beings have been here, like this, such as they.

There is a large bath in the corner; someone has come to draw heated water from the ancient taps—hence the steam—and towels are hung on two hooks by the door. Beyond that is a mat for meditation—big enough for two—and a sleep-couch the same. There is a window, dark with a night always lit by Coruscant’s citadel. A low shelf holds dusky bottles full of oils and a strange, stone-carved relic: he studies it a moment, captured by the craftsmanship, the abstraction of two beings in the act of love—

And feels something in the relic whisper back.

A crystal in its depths, gleaming through the Force, the sole source of gentle-wild light within the room: beckoning, cajoling, tantalizing tendrils of energy flaring out in something not unlike laughter, something that sends a thrall through his blood, something unseen to stroke him to hardness between one breath and the next. He blinks, struggling to dislodge the speckled lights flashed behind his eyes, to draw a steady breath, acutely aware of Qui-Gon’s presence . . . His nearness, his energy, the _life_ thrumming through him: so close and so clear and so undiluted now that Obi-Wan knows there is no hope of hiding his reaction—

_Nor should it be so,_ comes the answer: subtle, song-struck: the Force-sensitive river-stone nestled in the hidden pocket at his breast, warm against his heart. _For this night, let your troubles lay . . . Peace now; hush now . . ._

Expectantly he turns, finds Qui-Gon by the crystal’s glow casually leaning against the wall to shuck his boots, a half-smile of something like contentment tugging at his lips. Unperturbed by his Padawan’s state—or else treading cautiously. Which it is, he doesn’t know.

But ripples through the Force struck to the crystal’s song tease at unbidden memories: other things they dance around, things they don’t yet speak of. Things that leave him wondering if his Master’s blood is quickened, too—and if for this ritual, these fleeting hours, they’ll at last be able to understand just what it is that binds them. If only for that, Obi-Wan will be grateful. Mace Windu’s warning, Yoda’s, flicker through his mind . . . and yes, for all the frantic keening of his body, the hope of all he’s longed for (perhaps) outheld before him now . . . an answer and no more would be more than peace enough.

Qui-Gon glances up at last, face framed by hair he’s left untied tonight. The smile broadens, imperceptibly, tangled and dancing in his eyes far more than playing at his lips. He follows the line of Obi-Wan’s gaze, settling upon the relic; a low rumbled chuckle seems to shake the room, so silent have they been.

“A relic—the Temple’s only—from a planet called Rán’tha. It is . . . unique, to say the least. It acts as a mirror for the Force-sensitive beings who encounter it . . . reflecting . . . ah . . . what it is they need to see.”

Obi-Wan is on the verge of asking what exactly Qui-Gon means by that when his Master straightens up, a soft shake of his head enough to still the words.

On barren feet he steps across the room—a mountain of a man moving with noiseless, fluid grace—at ease in his body in a way that Obi-Wan is only beginning to understand himself. He kneels at the shelf, gathering the relic in his hands; his fingertips caress the abstracted shapes, stroking the stone with an intimate and unmistakable familiarity, bordering erotic. Qui-Gon bows his head a moment, and Obi-Wan trembles as he catches the faint decibels of a half-tempered moan.

And yet a thread of uncertainty—jealousy, even—begins to twine about his heart—a brief, dark thing that immediately brings a flush of shame across his cheeks. Qui-Gon, catalyzed by intuition and years of being closer than most beings can ever truly know, reaches through the bond: assurances, soft-soothing gestures, gentle glancing touches of the mind: promises that this night is theirs, is _only_ theirs, and _<Here, my Padawan; come here; come sit with me and this crystal of the living Force . . . Come here and I will tell you a story.>_

Even through the Force the words-beyond-words—the thoughts as good his own—are thick and rough with longing; Obi-Wan swallows, slipping from his boots, the rasp of trouser-cloth against his cock—however rough—friction enough to leave him visibly shaking and weak-limbed as he stumbles towards his Master, placidly seated there upon the meditation-mat, the relic cradled in his lap.

* * *

_“Master . . . I don’t want this.”_

_Dooku appraises him from deep-set, shadowed eyes; glow-lamps nestled in the corners illuminate the room with soft-edged brightness . . . But the _real_ glow—as far as Qui-Gon is aware—comes from a crystal in a stone-carved relic, nestled on a shelf with bottles full of fragrances and oil._

_“And why is that, Padawan?”_

_Qui-Gon glances up, finds Dooku’s austere face studying his own with typical reserve. There is no subtext to the question; this is not a test, although he certainly would not have put it past Dooku to twist the ritual to such, no matter what the Council said._

_He pauses a moment, gathering his thoughts, struggling to put into words the sheer blinding _intensity_ of the living Force that thrums throughout the room: it had seeped into the marrow of his bones the moment they had crossed over the threshold, and now it pools, warm and bright, somewhere in the very center of his being, stroking at his flesh in a way that—even at twenty-three—he scarcely understands. But it is good, is _right _. . ._

_“It’s naught to do with you, Master.”_

_“Nor would I have thought it such.”_

_“But Master, I . . . ” Qui-Gon wraps his robe about himself, suddenly self-conscious, as if some part of him will otherwise betray the secrets that the crystal so faintly whispers unto him. _ _“The Council warned me . . . warned us . . . that this is not a ritual about the body. I have no doubt you could . . . teach me the . . . ”—heat creeps across his cheeks—“the physical mechanics. But if it’s not about lust, it’s not about something so equally antithetical . . . detached . . . Is it?”_

_“For some.” Dooku’s gaze grows distant, and Qui-Gon realizes with a start that the last time his Master had set foot within this room was with Yoda himself. “And for some it is transcendent: a lesson in the living Force. I should think you might appreciate that much.”_

_“I do.” _

_Dooku pivots, as if glancing once more around the room, a faint smile at his lips, before striding towards the door. He lays a hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder as he passes—a rare gesture indeed. Rarer than a smile, however faint, however fleet._

_“Then consider this room yours for the night. Do as you wish. Let that crystal sing to you—let the living Force embrace you. I can see it’s struck something within you yet, Qui-Gon. And no . . . ” Dooku pauses at the threshold; lost to the shadows, the young man can’t begin to read him thus; their bond is nothing now but a wall of durasteel-wrought darkness. “This ritual is not ours to share; it would not be right. Your heart belongs, I sense, to someone you’ve yet to meet.”_

_Qui-Gon gapes a moment, struggling to untangle the meaning of the words—a Jedi cannot know love; what, then, does his Master mean? Why, now, of any time at all—any time when Qui-Gon might speak his mind, might seek knowledge or autonomy—why _now_ does Dooku relent? He is not known for such acquiescence . . . The crystal’s song is beginning to quicken with the pronouncement that he will be _alone_, wild and reckless, and he’s finding it harder and harder by the moment to tease apart Dooku’s guarded words. Perhaps the _why_ isn't important . . . not as much as that they _are _. . . _

_The room shifts and blurs and the glow-lamps are snuffed out and that ethereal-struck living Light flares behind his eyes and he sways where he stands._

_Dooku is gone, the door slid shut, and Qui-Gon finds himself alone with the luxurious heat of the bath, the languid hours of the night, the laughing crystal and the living Force._

* * *

“What . . . “ Obi-Wan gives pause, unsure of what to ask, or how, painfully aware of the relic nestled there betwixt them, stone rough against his palms, the weight of Qui-Gon's hands atop his own. They sit knee-to-knee, almost, their heads bowed until their foreheads touch. He knows now that he does not imagine the kindling-spun need out of some self-deprived delusion; there is no mistaking—_cannot_ be—the cadence caught between them thus. "What did you do, Master?"

Qui-Gon shifts nearer, almost imperceptibly, his presence bearing heat and light without bounds, without physicality or definition—penetrating as the Force itself. His eyes are full of unabandoned laughter—something of a kind that Obi-Wan has never seen—and for so, so brief a moment, he has a glimpse of who his Master was at his own age.

One hand slips up to tangle briefly in his braid before tracing the clean-shaven curve of his jaw with such a quiet touch that it seems to set every nerve in the young man’s body alight. He tenses, gasps, whimpering despite himself, only half-ashamed now of his desire for the fact that his Master is a mirror—that Qui-Gon quivers, too, and that his voice catches, answers keening whimpered cry with resonating song—something that carries with it sacred counterrhythmic weight.

“I bathed . . . ”

The words are soft, caught to visceral strains, scarcely more than a whisper, than the wafted warmth of Qui-Gon’s breath against his cheek. And for a moment—just a moment—the room about them _blurs_ and the Force slips Obi-Wan’s spirit from the here-and-now.

_He feels the heat of water there against his skin, thick as silk with scented oil blotting tracks across the surface; the smell is deep, is ancient, is something he can’t quite put his finger on . . . He leans his head back, breathes in the steam and the oil’s scent and feels every inch of his body, in this moment: the finitude—the infinite._

“And meditated . . . the relic here beneath my hands . . .”

His Master’s voice—the current shifting—back, so briefly—back to the body his own—

The stone . . . Qui-Gon’s touch quietly working there against the muscles, tendons, bones, showing him with subtle grace the paths he’d traced there, all those years ago . . . The crystal answers in brief, sharp visceral _light_ . . . and again he is in time-outside-of time—

_The meditation mat half-chaffs against bare skin, still damp from the bath; his Padawan’s braid unplaited, the last locks of copper hair left long draped, waterlogged, across his shoulder . . . _

“The crystal sang of primal pleasure . . . the throes in which so many beings love . . . what's forbidden us . . . ”

_—and he can feel a bead of precum trickling down his cock and oh—his hands clench reflexively, the urge to touch himself almost overwhelming—it would take a stroke, no more—and the thought catches a cry at his lips—ah, but he is above such a base nature—above such lust—that is not what the crystal calls him to—let alone the Force—let alone his training—to fritter it away on such as this?—no—absolutely not—_

_And so he bows his head, seeking to strike some rhythm to his breathing—to seek some solace there—this is more than he can bear—as if the living Force that seems to hold this sacred part of him also holds him so, just so, at the edge of the abyss—_

“But then I slipped into a trance . . . ” A shudder wracks Qui-Gon’s frame; Obi-Wan feels the tremors pass through those broad, coarse hands to his and then, it seems, into the stone, into the pool of the crystal’s light—he feels the eddies, ripples, doubled, re-echoed, reverberating back terrible-sweet tension tautly strung—

And he doesn’t know

_quite who it is_

who moans

_and_

“And—”

_The Force surges about him—the pleasure turned solely unto Light—nothing of the void or Darkness—nothing of an edge from which to fall or be thrown, even by pleasure—only sweetness, rapture, resplendent—the promise not merely of release but something more profound, by far, than even the most exquisite bodily experience—_

_Transcendent, just as Dooku said—_

_He lifts his head, blinks open heavy-lidded eyes—and there, stepping towards him softly, out of mist, of othertime, out of the Force itself—there is a man—naked—but not merely so—_

_He is shorter and stocky, his body bespeaking not brute power or raw strength but finesse and subtle grace; flaxen hair half falls across his brow, and from within thick-bearded brush his lips curve in a smile. His eyes are cerulean, bright as day—and—_

Obi-Wan gasps, tears himself from the vision, flings the emotions he can hardly name into the bond, reaching for his Master, his anchor—ever, always—

_<Yes.>_ Words are shallow, are profane; this—this is sacred ground. Qui-Gon’s thumb strokes at his chin, circles up, catches at his lip—reverential, wondrous—and it seems as if he has felt the touch before . . . _<Peace, now; hush, now . . . Yes, my Padawan. The Force gave me that night a vision of the Jedi, the Master, you are destined to become . . . and the man you are.>_

A pause, and Obi-Wan realizes that the crystal has settled into a tempered heat, its tempo struck half-time now to the frenzy it had been.

They have not moved. Qui-Gon’s breath is still warm and steady against his cheek. To look anywhere at all is to fall into the depths of indigo eyes. He feels his Master beaming—like the thread of unabandoned laughter from before—something he knows that no one has ever seen. Not quite. Something saved for _him_, like the little twitching glances of amusement Qui-Gon will sometimes toss his way or the deft plaiting of his braid by such large fingers that to watch the simple act, to feel the slightest tug of hair, is wonderment . . .

That Qui-Gon has taken, over the last few years, to wakening him in the morning not with a word. A touch.

He stares into that dear familiar gaze, the depths, the Force caught there in the crystal’s glow, refracted over the broad planes of his Master's face, and shadow-gathered valleys and the liquid pools of eyes and a hundred thousand strands of silvered-copper hair, each one cast to flame—

He smiles, some mixture of a virgin's trepidation and brimming confidence, and from his Master’s laughter knows that—though he might be younger than the vision come—his smile is the same.

* * *

_<You’re trembling.>_

Qui-Gon’s hands catch his as he fumbles with the clasp of his Master’s belt; Obi-Wan glances up, welcomes the warmth of Qui-Gon’s grasp. The shaking stops.

_<Are you nervous?> _

One hand slips up to press against his chest—the Force-sensitive stone nestled in his pocket—strength feeding strength, light feeding light, just above his heart.

_<No, Master. Not so . . . > _A pause, and the beating of blood in his chest, his ears, his hands—his cock—seems to settle, somehow, heavily against his throat. _<But . . . I know I should not, Master, but I have dreamed of this for many years.>_

The hand slips higher, slips along his collarbone, tangles with his braid before stroking at his cheek. Feather-light, the touch, from such an immense and powerful man . . . But there is no sense, now, of the power being constrained or controlled: no: the whole of his Master is just this—in this moment, here, with him—this gentleness is all he is—

_<Look . . . >_ Qui-Gon pulls his hand away a moment, and there Obi-Wan can faintly see the tremors rattling his fingers, before a wry quirk twists the older man’s lips and again that touch is laid against his cheek. Reflexively he leans into it—such a quiet, subtle thing— _<And so you see, I tremble, too. But you, my Padawan—you anchor me. I am not shaking now.>_

Obi-Wan reaches out, impulsively, letting go of Qui-Gon’s belt and tangling his hands first in that disheveled tunic (he’s always longed to straighten it) and then up, up into his Master’s hair—briefly—before he trails one finger there against the curve of Qui-Gon’s cheek.

_<You see?>_

A nod, a glance, no more: something given-shared: a promise, a hope: the quiet acknowledgement of mutual naïveté, of innocence, that there need be no shame, not for anything tonight. They journey together into the unknown, as it seems it's always been—if will not always be.

And so shaking hands, in turn, unlatch belts and lay lightsabers reverently down. Tunics are pulled over heads, hair brushed back from an aquiline face, a braid tenderly undone. The rustle of fabric, the cadence of their undressing is familiar; each knows the other as well as himself. Fingers flick at the ties to trousers, carefully, oh-so-carefully avoiding the unmistakable lilt and ache of constrained cocks, patches of damp fabric, _heat._

At last they stand together, naked, half-lit by the crystal’s glow. They have seen each other so, of course—have slept as such within their quarters in the Temple—but the moment now is somber, is weighted with far more than tempered need, than two men who but half-know their own flesh suddenly aware of the other’s, suddenly realizing how much, just how much, and how deeply, they long for the other’s—

No. Not merely the flesh.

As if . . .

The closest they both know is when they carefully forged the bond between them through the Force—the first whisper-brushed thought—the gentlest touch of mind to mind—something, a seed planted, that they knew must grow and change, that they knew they’d need to tend—

And yet . . .

More, much more.

Not merely the flesh.

Not merely the mind.

Qui-Gon reaches out—holds open his arms—his presence through the Force, all that he is, his offering—no words, no emotions that are fit for naming (no, they are too deep, too precious; he will never know to name them—ah--)—peace-Light-hope—

_love_

And Obi-Wan looks into his Master’s eyes, and knows the Code_—_his vows, and all that they entail_—_and knows, too, what he learned all those years ago: that in his heart, his blood, his bones, he is a Jedi—he could be naught else—

but

For this night—for this sacred act, this offering—this thing that he will carry with him, always—for Qui-Gon, only and ever . . . This man that he would defend with his life, this man that he would defend with his honor, this man—

_<Master.>_

He steps forward, gasping sharply as at last they meet—flesh flush to heated flesh—and wraps Qui-Gon in his arms.

—with whom he knows love.

* * *

Somehow they both fit in the bath: knee-to-knee again, knee-curled-to-chest, toes dancing, hands entwined, heads bowed and foreheads brushing, breathing in the steam and one another’s breath. Soap-slickened fingertips knead knotted muscles, trace labyrinthine scars, find in their wanderings little secrets, little places that elicit mewling moans or leave heavy-lidded eyes half-rolled. The act is subtle and sensual and a thing of meditation, mantra, prayer. The Force converged in acts of tenderness, of soap that leaves no trace of scent so that they may smell nothing but the other. The Force converged in the slightest brush of calloused hands and the faintest play of touch there in a thatch of hair and at a stiffened cock—treading with great care—it would take so little—_oh_—and so yes, they are careful in their washing there. The Force converged in the pouring of water, the rinsing of hair: an absolution, perhaps. Or without that moral weight—ah—no—for what they do tonight is right, is as it should be. A benediction, then, in the cascade of water and unscented soap which stings the eyes.

* * *

The towels are coarse, a welcome counterpoint to heat and water and soap-scudded frictionless wandering hands: there is a finitude to this, to the press of the cloth against damp skin, the cool air against warm flesh: something that brings them, at last, reeling, to a degree again of consciousness and self-restraint. The bath had seemed primordial, dreamlike, trancelike: now they step again unto the world of flesh and blood, giving them pause, a chance to dance away from the edge, ah, the tempered edge of their desire—no less, now, but they have steady hands to card through tangled, sodden hair, and the accidental whispered friction of the towel-cloth against thigh and cleft and cock is not enough, in the end, to bring to bear the Light.

Obi-Wan brushes a strand of hair back from his Master’s eyes, half-holding his breath as he feels familiar hands begin to plait his braid. They nearly touch—a half-step between them, no more. But there is depth, he knows, when there is distance, and this half-wrought separation—however loathe they were to disentangle themselves—is just as well. He feels the crystal quickening, quivering, reverent splendor and joy and rapture, promising _all_, all in its gently cavorting light and song, and knows what next will come.

A song to their own measure.

A final binding thread and the braid is done and Qui-Gon’s hand lies rough against his cheek. He turns his head, seized with a wild impulse, and presses his lips with unspeakable tenderness into the calloused valley of his Master’s palm. He is rewarded with an indrawn breath—deliberate—and a thrall flung through him as he feels, first, the brush of Qui-Gon’s beard—and then the press of a kiss, the same, there against his palm: chaste, long-lingering, bespeaking intent as surely as the bond between them thrums with echoes of the crystal’s light and a strain of something else—ah—something as fragile as gossamer and stronger than durasteel—

Love.

_Love._

He inhales slowly, too, catching the rhythm of his Master’s breath, and tastes the word, lets it settle against his tongue, lets it seep into the pores of his skin like the water and the scentless soap—and if Qui-Gon washed him, ah, then more than soap, more than something as physical as water seeped into his flesh and bones. It brings a giddiness, a searing warmth wrapped around his heart, the knowledge that this love is not—somehow—it cannot be—in violation of the Code—

Ah, no—and the warmth and light well up and again he smiles, stirs that deep basso-rumbled laughter in his Master’s breast: the smile that he saw in his vision, all those years ago, standing here before him now, at last.

* * *

They face each other in the crystal’s flicker, half-dimmed now; the sleep couch is forgiving there against their skin, the fabric plush; it betrays nothing of their movements but with the softest sigh of sound. Knee-to-knee again—kneeling—no longer in placid cross-legged repose but half-caught twixt something taut and quivered-sprung and temperance, long-suffering.

Qui-Gon gathers his Padawan’s hands into his own, seeming so deceptively fragile in his grasp. He lifts each, slowly, to his lips, inhaling deep the scent of him: something at once so distantly-flung that he cannot give it name, and so grounded that he could set foot on any world and simply _breathe_ and find some trace of him. As on the coldest nights he can tip back his head and almost smell the stars . . .

He brushes his lips against each knuckle, the play of bone, the rivers of veins and the shivering tendons. Fourteen kisses for each hand, a breath between them all, and oh, he feels the pulse jump and quicken ere he’s done, hears the young man’s breathing gather erratic—hitched—strung first to a whimper, then a quiet moan. From the corner of one eye he glimpses muscles clenching in the crystal’s light. The swayed shadow of his Padawan’s cock, velvet softness betraying the weeping head, the trail of precum dripping now . . .

Qui-Gon pauses, then, withholds himself as if from stepping across a reaching crest of wonder, studying the young man in the semi-light: his eyes half-closed, his mouth drawn firmly in a frown of concentration. Still he strives to hold himself—to _will_ himself—to stillness, self-control—self-sacrifice. He looks much older than he is—but not in the same measure as the man who came to him. Ah, no—_he_ had seen this hardship and come to rectify it. The younger self before the Master now has not yet understood as much: that this act is not, can never be between them, sacrifice.

An offering? Of course. Neither has known another’s touch. Qui-Gon suspects Obi-Wan hasn’t known even his own, has known only shadows from half-shuddered dreams. Something far purer than pride has kept his hand from wandering . . .

His own body aches, warm-liquid-heat, raw life, his own cock like a bowstring drawn: sharp, concentrated energy—and only now does he realize that he, like the archer, at the cusp of this is trembling. But not as before—

_<Master.>_

Soft, the word, the touch—Obi-Wan’s hand against his thigh, some mid-distance there between his knee and groin which need not speak of intimacy only. His gaze flicks up, meets cerulean eyes, and he sees then from the curve of those lips, the dancing glow, that the young man has grasped the truth of this. Not merely the act of love—nor love itself—but this, but theirs.

Overcome, Qui-Gon lays his hands at Obi-Wan’s hips and places one last sacred kiss there—just there—at the head of his cock, lingering, swirling his tongue and tasting salt and bitterness and there beneath it, the now-familiar echo of his skin—just that—the taste of him, the scent, reminiscent of the far-flung stars in some way that is far beyond the senses. He hears Obi-Wan gasp as tresses of his hair, half-dried, trail across his thighs and oh, then, oh when lips meet flesh the half-sobbed cry, the arching back, the body that flings itself against his grasp, straining—more and _more_ and it is never enough—beyond the fetters of Obi-Wan’s control—

He does not condone losing control for its own sake. But this—what greater affirmation than this? They are Jedi; self-control beyond most beings’ comprehension is the latticework of their lives, and for this night each can undo the other and that, that is the offering.

Slowly Qui-Gon inhales, musk thick in his nose, heady and beguiling—and then he lifts his head and half-stumbles through semi-light, seeking—feels Obi-Wan shift, nearer, nearer, meeting him—hears the soft-murmured “Please” and the bond between them so tranquil and so still, depth without finitude, holding them, just holding them: something so bright and so clear as to hold them.

* * *

They kiss—again the first chaste dance, uncertain only for its newness and for years’ compounded dreams rushing suddenly to meet them in the finitude of flesh. Warmth, sweet-echoing; warmth and chapped lips and silvered-copper beard-bristles and smooth-shaven skin. Obi-Wan tilts his head, just _so_, and suddenly finds that his and Qui-Gon’s lips seem as if pieces of a puzzle joined at last. He isn’t sure if he or his Master makes as if to speak but the motion spurs them first to stunned stillness and then a gasping breath and then they carry the motions onwards, slow: learning a new _kata_ . . .

He remembers the thrall of Qui-Gon’s tongue at his cock and bows his head into the kiss further and finds a sweeter friction there, somehow, reaching, seeking, tasting. He tangles his hands in the tresses of Qui-Gon’s hair (how long he’s so longed for), surging forward, desperate: any distance is too much. He wants to hold his Master in his arms as if to shield him from each dark shadow chasing him; he is a sower of great Light, and yes, the shadows come.

But not merely for that. Not Light.

_<Love.>_

Qui-Gon’s breath is harsh and quick, a staccatoed rasp, a great hoarse-throated labor laced with cries half-spun; he falls back against the sleep-couch, untangling his legs, hardly a moment yet to gather stock of himself in any measure whatsoever before warmth and heat and light and _oh—_Obi-Wan’s body slipped with tempered grace against his own; they shift again, as with the kiss, seeking solace when the pieces are turned and made whole, made two into one.

Heavy-lidded eyes slide towards the shelf—away. They know no need will come for oil. Their act, their love, is not as such. Is this:

Obi-Wan traces the planes of his Master’s face, the shadows, and trails his lips there as softly as an afterthought: whispered kisses, delicate as the briefest of moments when their eyelashes brush together and he feels the rumble of Qui-Gon’s laughter and it’s as if the planet shakes—his whole world—his galaxy. Along his brow and down his nose—a brief pause, then, at the well of his lips to drink deeply—and downwards—the pounding fierce thread of a pulse at his neck—his chest—hands slipped briefly up to trace his nipples.

Qui-Gon groans, cants his hips upwards, and Obi-Wan lets the motion carry him, answers with a counterrhythm, grinding, gathered sweat and precum and friction and he can feel the fire tearing through his veins and in a moment more—

Not yet. He wants to do this, first.

Downward, then, and Qui-Gon’s body beneath him, his cries unbroken now, a song, and he gives in kind the kiss granted unto him: he does not take his Master’s cock into his mouth, nor touches him, but lets his lips rest there at the head, trailing the circumference, smelling and tasting even here the richness and the depthless depths—for Qui-Gon is the Light in all those places—life clinging to itself even as death’s shadow falls—

_<Here—please—Obi-Wan—oh, please—come here—I need—>_

The frantic-threaded edge and the song turned keening cry and the Light pounds behind his eyes and Qui-Gon pulls him close again and wraps his thighs about the young man's hips and Obi-Wan, in turn, wraps his arms around his Master’s shoulders and clings for what feels like dear life**—**to his Master, ever, always**—**

Lost now—found now—the rhythm lost and Qui-Gon’s gasping shout, thrice-struck in time to twitching cock and spurted cum—and Obi-Wan is only half-aware that his own voice is caught in a lovecry—a sweet agonized rapture, hoarse and raw and unbroken and years and _years_ and he’s never known—oh, never again will he know, nor they—but for this night—and now—here-and-now and all he knows is Qui-Gon firm beneath him, grinding-friction sought, relentless, driving, ache brought to a breaking point—soft-nothing words whispered in his ear that mean absolutely everything—the bond between them pure and glaring-bright and every piece of him scattered, _scattered_ into Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look! The relic / crystal from ["The Act Of Love"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822318) made a cameo. ;) Not in my plans (but then I thought, "Why have this super-powerful healing crystal there since it's not needed now? Nahhh, let's have the super-powerful horny crystal instead!!!") . . .
> 
> I also wrote that story with a specific intent: that Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon never kiss. So I decided to flip that on its head and have lots of kissing here. <3
> 
> **I'm happily taking any and all first-time Qui-Gon / Obi-Wan prompts, by the way. Sling some at me if you like! <3**


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